


Remember Me

by MissAkito



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Child Death, Cole the spirit, Gen, the real Cole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 09:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5242457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissAkito/pseuds/MissAkito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My personal take on how our Cole met the real Cole. This goes by book canon, as well as a few of my own personal headcanons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember Me

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from the song Remember Me by Anadel. I listened to it repeatedly while writing this, and feel it describes both Coles beautifully.

It's quiet now. It's been quiet for some time. Before there had been screaming, begging, pounding on the walls. But now, not even the low words of the Templars can be heard.

The boy could hardly move anymore. He lay curled on his side, one arm reaching up above his head, where it had made its last feeble attempts at scratching the stone. Useless. What was the point? No one had bothered to come by in days. Days? Weeks? Months?

The boy couldn't tell the difference anymore. Time bled into itself in his lonely, dark cell. There was no window through which to judge the passing of hours, and the strange blue lamps had been extinguished some time ago, after the last Templar had left. When had that been...

The boy's thoughts curled about in his head like dense smoke, making little sense even to him. He supposed it was a side effect of the hunger. He was so very hungry. He'd not eaten for days, even before the Templars caught him. He shouldn't have stopped by that river to rest.

_Just a quick drink,_ he'd thought. _A drink and some time off my feet, and then I can move on._

But he had been wrong. Now he couldn't run even if he possessed the strength to try, and his throat was dry and burned every time he swallowed. He'd screamed himself hoarse not too long ago, and now only bare squeaks could be forced out of him. What if someone came to get him? What if someone came looking for him and he wasn't able to call out?

The thought made him worry, but he needn't have. Because no one came. Silence reigned eternal, with not even a lone, distant drip of water to give him something to focus on.

He just wanted it to be over. He wanted the Templars to come, to do with him what they will. He'd welcome anything, if only they'd let him out. His mouth twitched, wanting to form the thoughts into words, to make the plea tangible. But nothing came, only cracked breaths. He was dying. Was he dying? Was this what it felt like? It was nothing like falling asleep or seeing a bright light. He supposed Mama couldn't be right about everything.

No. No, this wasn't right. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to die! His half-lidded eyes spun around the room as the rest of him continued to lie still; an anchor holding him immobile, trapping his sudden panic within.

_I don't want to die!_ he internally yelled, trying to move his arms, to sit up. Useless. Hopeless.

_Somebody! Anybody! Please..._

Nothing. Just more silence, now broken by the boy's ragged, short breaths. He closed his eyes, the darkness of the cell replaced by a much more comfortable dark. The black behind his eyes was soothing, familiar. He could pretend this way, pretend that he was back home. Back before the bad day. Mama would be flitting about the house, so quiet you'd almost miss her. But no bother, because his little sister would be making enough noise for the both of them, feet stomping as she ran through the house yelling while she played with her dolls, squealing in delight whenever he or Mama scooped her up. She was a lot like Father in that way. Though Father never liked it when she made too much noise, so he and Mama were always ready nearby to shush her. She was learning quickly, though, to keep more quiet when Father was home.

The boy frowned. He didn't want to think about that man. No, best to keep his thoughts light, happy, free, like flying through the air, unchained, unbound by events of the past.

Father had never been a kind man. No gentle heart beat beneath his stained undershirt. But still the boy was surprised on the bad day. Father had never hit Mama like that. Had never said those kind of words to her, to him. And Mama had never been that frightened.

"Take your sister and hide." she had said.

And he'd listened. He'd hidden away somewhere dark and small, Bunny's wails of confusion filling the tiny space. He held her tightly to him, hoping that she'd understand as the sounds of distant shouting grew more frantic. They had gone down into the basement, and the children heard a thunderous crash from below.

Afraid of what might happen if they were discovered, the boy wrapped one long, thin hand over his sister's face. The little girl's hot tears ran over his skin as she feebly kicked out with her feet, small arms pinned by his own as he embraced her tighter, trying to convey comfort through his hold.

_I won't let him hurt you,_ he thought fiercely.

The boy was torn from his memories by the ghost of a cold touch; just the barest tip of fingers against his hair. His eyes opened wide, head moving to look upward in small, jerking motions. Only black could be seen, however, and the boy hoped that insects weren't claiming him as a new home, skittering across him in the dark.

A shudder wracked his body at the thought, and the kid let out a gruff breath of pain. Everything ached, from the healing wounds to his creaking bones. He really wanted out of there. How long had it been? The Templars should have come for him by now, right? Isn't that how it worked? They'd said that they were taking him to the Spire, and the boy knew enough to figure out that they meant the White Spire in Val Royeaux. The Circle. Because he was a mage, and mages were dangerous.

Dangerous, wicked, a threat to all. Need to be caged, locked away. You were a mistake.

His father never liked magic, and those burdened with its weight. He had held no pity for Mama and her pleas for understanding. Her apologies had meant nothing when faced with the ultimate proof of her sin.

A mark upon her soul, one which had been carried over to him, had latched onto him like a leech. The boy hated magic. Hated all it caused. Nothing but misery. What use was it.

The Templars would certainly kill him for possessing it, right? He had no idea what became of mages taken to the Spire, but surely one so terrible as he, who'd killed two people, surely there would be no mercy for him.

_Please, someone, anyone..._

The unspoken plea once again dissolved unheard into the air, the child's hazy mind barely recognizing the tentative brush of fingers along his head.

His breath stuttered in surprise, eyebrows furrowing as he tried to turn his head again to look around the cell. Inky black shadows clung to the uneven stone walls, but no figure could the boy see. He was beginning to believe a rat had managed to scurry its way in there without his notice.

Not liking the thought any more than the one about bugs, the boy immediately brought his limbs closer, tucking his head down and curling further in on himself despite his muscles' protests.

_I'm not dead yet,_ he thought angrily. _Can't they at least wait 'til I'm dead to start picking at me?_

Time slowly crawled by, and the young blond relaxed once more, though it was more out of exhaustion than true contentment. He just wanted out of there. He'd screamed it enough, begged with anyone who might hear to let him out. Pounded against the walls when his voice eventually failed him. And still no Templars came.

They had been unforgiving and harsh when they first captured the boy, his feral shrieks and struggles earning him a few hard hits about his body. The bruise on his side was the ugliest, its deep purple centre now being swallowed up by a sickly yellow.

The trip to the Orlesian capital had been quiet and tense, the Templars murmuring conspiratorially between themselves, casting occasional glances back at him. He hadn't dared raise his voice, not even to ask questions. He just sat there silently, arms wrapped around his middle as he tries to keep his eyes on his bare feet.

He couldn't help but look around as they reached the expansive city, however, eyes wide and filled with wonder as he took in the lovely sights. He'd never even been near the capital, much less within its walls.

So taken in by the sprawling beauty, the blond had jumped harshly when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, urging him to stand. The stony faces of the Templars offered neither compassion nor scorn as they marched him quickly through the Spire doors.

He'd had only the briefest glances of the tower interior before he was ushered down a long flight of stairs. And from there, thrown headlong into a tiny cell. The door had slammed shut behind him, and then the sound of retreating steps, leaving only the pale glow of the lamps.

Not long after that, the Templars had returned, only to ignore him entirely, speaking amoungst themselves from just outside. The boy had been far too afraid to call out to them, but soon wished he had after they left, dousing the lights and leaving him alone in darkness.

The kid's entire body jerked, jumping in place as his head moved up so quickly his neck popped. Ignoring the throb of pain, he looked around himself in growing dread. Something had most definitely just touched him. Was a rodent attempting to form a nest out of his dirtied hair?

Imaginary cobwebs settled over his skin, and the boy desperately wanted to brush them away, but his hands refused his brain's commands, moving clumsily about, fingers twitching uselessly. He gave up, pulling them back to his chest and giving in to the strange sensations.

The cell had grown much colder; or perhaps it was he that was losing all warmth. He couldn't tell.

The boy attempted to wrap his arms around himself, to trap some of the warmth still inside him, but his limbs were completely uncooperative. His shallow, rough breathing had slowed as well, causing the fog in his brain to encase him further, and soon the boy was floating back amoung his memories. Where had he left off? Ah, yes.

Mama was fretting over the laundry, skirting around the house quietly and collecting everyone's dirtied clothes. Bunny was stomping up and down the kitchen, waving her dolls in the air as though they were flying. She accompanied these swooping motions with dramatic whooshing sounds. The boy was happy to watch from a seat at the wooden table, where he often would sit quietly. The kitchen was the centre of the small, open house, and the kid felt like he was able to keep watch over most of the goings ons from this vantage.

Not much happened in the young boy's life, and he found the day-to-day tasks of his family to be both amusing and intriguing. When Father wasn't away at work, he was usually outside tending to their garden. Mama would frequently make quick trips out to speak with him. Always quickly, always quietly, and the kid often wondered what it was she was telling him. Maybe asking him how his day went? If he needed anything?

Sometimes, when Father was heavily occupied with tending to his chores, Mama would let the cat into the house. Father hated it, and would yell and complain for hours on the few occasions he'd caught the feline drifting lazily about indoors.

The boy felt bad for the poor animal; the nights could get so cold, especially during winter. Some nights would be so cold that he and his sister would be led into their parents' bedroom. They'd all wrap up in an extra layer of blankets, the faint whistle of wind coming in through cracks in the walls, accompanied by even breathing as the family of four settled in together. Those were the rare moments when Father would act affectionate toward his children. The yelling and the gruff commands and the disappointment would all fade away, and it would just be his father, running his hand through his daughter's long hair, reaching out to brush calloused fingers across the boy's forehead.

Cold, small fingers that wove delicately through each blond strand, avoiding the many tangles, afraid to pull at them. Another touch, another hand. This one sliding smoothly against his palm, fingers wrapping around his own. His mother?

He could feel the warmth of them all, nestled close around him. His sister's feathery breath against his neck, Mama clasping his hand gently, Father carding his fingers through his hair. He was so tired; it had been a long day. The cat was getting fat. Mama said she'd be having babies of her own soon. The boy was very excited about this.

The blankets were starting to feel too heavy, and he wanted to kick them away, to allow the cool air to hit his body and allow him to breathe more freely. Frustration mounted as his legs refused to kick out against the smothering covers, a small whimper building inside his throat. He wanted to turn and look toward his mother, to wake her up and ask for help, but his eyelids seemed to have gained considerable weight, and he found them sealed shut.

Through this, the hands never left. His father was now picking lightly at a few select patches of hair that felt oddly stuck together, and Mama never once let go of his small, clammy hand.

"Cole."

His name. Someone said his name, whispered it. Was Mama awake? Was she aware of his attempt at struggling free of the blankets? Maybe she would reach over and pull them down, and allow him some relief.

"Cole."

But Mama did not move, and as the voice spoke again he found it to be too light to belong to his mother. Maybe it was Bunny, talking in her sleep again.

He could no longer feel her breath ghosting across his skin. Had she gotten up? Where was she? He could feel her missing from his side, even with his eyes closed.

Where had she gone so late? The kitchen to get a drink, perhaps? It was so dark, she'd surely get herself lost. The blankets were so heavy. It was very dark inside the bedroom as well. So dark and so small. Too small. He had hardly enough room to stretch his legs out, let alone fit another tiny body in there with him. But he had to. Mama had told him to hide.

_If he finds us, we'll have to run._ Cole thought.

And if they couldn't run...well, Cole remembered his mother's dagger. The one that belonged to her family. Father didn't like it, and told her to get rid of it. She hadn't, though. One of the many secrets she kept. She'd shown Cole where it was buried.

"Just in case." she had said.

She'd said the words lightly, and with a smile, and so Cole had never worried.

"Cole." Mama said in surprise, realising he'd been watching her sing quietly a song from her old village.

"Cole!" his sister called indignantly, demanding that he play dress-up with her.

"Cole!" his father chastised him once again, annoyance settling in his eyes. A familiar expression.

"Cole." his mother's call from outside, needing help with bringing in the laundry before the rain came.

"Cole." she beckoned him closer, a finger at her lips to quiet him as he peered beneath the porch steps. There were five of them.

"Cole, you little bastard!" a thunderous roar from below.

"Cole." the tiny whisper, somewhere behind him, where the boy couldn't see.

He could feel it now; a presence, in the cell with him. It was talking to him, repeating his name over and over again, as if that was the only word it knew.

He couldn't quite make out its voice. It was more like a breath, let out gently, just barely forming the necessary sounds. The hand in his hair had stopped moving, and now rest coolly on the top of his head. He attempted to ask who the owner of the appendage was, but could only get out cracked half-words. His throat still burned, he discovered.

The hand clasping his own tightened a fraction, becoming more solid, less like a phantom.

Somewhere in the child's mind, he knew that this wasn't a Templar in the room with him, and neither was it his long lost family. Was it another prisoner? Another mage that had somehow gotten into his cell, and as offering him comfort?

So many questions, and no clear answers. He fought to lift the fog from his brain. It had nearly overtaken him, but he wasn't ready to give in yet.

_I don't want to die_

"I don't want to die."

That had the kid jumping in his own skin, and he craned his neck as much as he could toward the source of the whisper. His captive hand curled instinctively around the one that held it, squeezing tightly until, with a sharp gasp, his hand went right through the cold one, forming a fist.

He cracked his eyes open, squinting intently through the shadows. Stories of ghosts floated up unbidden before his mind's eye, memories playing of the scary stories he had used to torment his sister with on late nights in their shared room. Now every tale was twisted to turn back on him, and he was the one who wanted to wail and call out for Mama.

As though sensing his distress, the hand on his head withdrew, leaving the boy feeling defenseless as he wondered where the person might be.

"Cole."

There it came again, leaving the boy feeling very much afraid. Was this truly a person, or a ghost? Or something worse?

He'd heard many awful tales about mages. His father's disdain for them was something he made known. Mages conjured demons, even without meaning to. They were a threat, to themselves and anyone around them.

Could he have conjured a demon somehow? Where did it come from? Or was it simply the ghost of a dead mage, someone who had died here just as he would. The boy wasn't certain, and as the long silence stretched on he began to care less and less. The small spark of adrenaline that fear had pumped through him was vanishing, leaving his muscles twitching as they relaxed against his will. His body once again limp and immovable, the boy resigned himself to whatever fate this thing had in store for him.

Oh well, death would surely come for him soon. Either from the Templars, or from this ghost creature, or who knows what else. It was what he deserved, after all. It was his fault, the entire mess. Why couldn't he have just controlled his magic? Mama could, after all. Father hated it and so she kept it locked away. Why was he so weak?

The hand was back, still cold and faint, but pressing against his fingers nonetheless. He allowed it, though he didn't really have much choice in the matter. At least the thing hadn't tried to suck out his soul or possess him or whatever it was Father said demons did.

Shifting, something was now shifting. It sounded almost like fabric, or the imitation of clothes moving with a body. Either way, he could suddenly make out a shape in the shadows. It was bending sideways, so as to peer down at his face. He caught a glimpse of what appeared to be eyes before his own slammed shut tight.

He didn't like this. Whatever this thing was, he wanted it gone. He didn't need its help, or whatever it was there for. He just wanted out. He just wanted the Templars to remember that he was still down there.

"I'm still down here." Came the steady tone, and the boy cringed.

He tried to pull his hand away, but could only manage to grasp the cold creature more firmly. The second hand had returned as well, settling lightly atop his head.

Maybe the thing didn't want to hurt him. It was scary, but it hadn't to rip him apart yet, so maybe it really was the ghost of some poor kid like him. Someone else who'd been forgotten and left alone.

Fingers resumed their tentative motions, pushing his hair back from his forehead, the sweat that had gathered there quickly evaporating into the air. The boy shivered in the cold. He regretted kicking the covers off. The draft was too much; he needed to relocate the blankets and pull them back up.

In the morning, he'd go check on the cat and her babies. He hoped dearly that none had died in the night, but Mama said it was a possibility. If they did, he'd have to bury them in secret or Bunny would find out. He'd never get her to stop crying, and Father would get mad.

Father was mad. Had gone mad. Her wailing just wouldn't stop. He'd only wanted her to stop. Quiet, Mama had said. Keep quiet.

The cupboard door was opening.

Breath hitched, and then faltered. Legs no longer kicking out. Arms limp at her sides. Quiet, being so very quiet, just like Mama wanted. No more screaming, beating against the stone walls. Quiet. Where is his sister? She's not beside him anymore. Perhaps she has gone into the kitchen...

It takes only minutes for the child's body to grow completely cold. There hadn't been much warmth left in him. The other occupant of the cell hadn't been of any help for that, as it held no warmth of its own.

It remained diligently, hands continuing their ministrations. Whether it was days or hours that passed, neither cell occupant could know, but finally the Templars came. Thunderously, they came, one hissing harshly at the others.

Keys jingled loudly in nervous hands, grating against the silence like ground up glass. The other curled away from the sudden light as the cell door swung open. It had grown to like its new space, as well as the lone child. And now these newcomers were speaking loudly, saying things that it could not understand. Their distress and anger were vivid before its eyes, however, and it reeled away from them as they invaded its small space. They moved into the cell, scooping up the boy, limbs dangling stiffly as they quickly walked out of sight.

It followed them, for how could it not. They had taken the boy away. It kept to the shadows, which was easily done as darkness permeated from every corner. the men continued to speak quickly between one another, glancing repeatedly behind them, either out of paranoia or because they could sense their extra companion.

Down down down they all went, the other watching the boy's arms and legs dangle from either side of the Templar who held him. It wanted nothing more than to steal the child back from these unknown people, and return him safely back to their small, quiet space, where they could resume their contented existence.

One of the men kept putting his face in his hands, especially whenever he looked back at the boy. The others didn't so much as glance down at him; even the one who carried him stared straight ahead.

After many stairways and curved passages, the Templars finally settled on a location, all coming to a stop before a deep crevice where runoff water had collected over the years.

The distraught one grabbed another by their shoulders, and shouts bounced off the walls. The loud man received a slap for his noise, and quickly quieted. The one he grabbed speaks in a quiet tone, and no anger or sadness radiates from him. The other men nod at his words, and he beckons the laden Templar forward.

Holding out a blue light, the Templar illuminates a deep pool of water. It knows what water is; has reached out a curious hand on rare occasions. Water makes no sense in its mind. Water will not warm the boy.

Slowly, the man leans down on one knee, says that way from a moment too long, before stretching his arms out and letting the thin body plop into the water. The stagnant water rises up and splashes him across the face, almost like a slap. He reacts to it like it is, jerking away and rising up quickly. He backs away from the crumbling edge, wiping at his face.

No more words are said, and all in the group flee the scene quickly, following the dim light on their way back up. It lets them pass it by, waiting silently. Once the echo of their footsteps is gone, it is at the water's edge in a moment, looking into the murky depths, searching.

There.

Without further thought, it dives in. It has never been this immersed in water before, and has no concept of swimming. Luckily, though, it has no need to breathe, or kick arms and legs that don't really exist. It has one goal in mind. To get the boy back safely to its space, where they will hopefully go unbothered further. It knows enough of living things to understand that being under water is not good for their survival.

But something is wrong. As the face comes into sight, it can see that the eyes no longer blink and move about. The mouth doesn't twitch, and neither do the hands. All the things it had come to define the boy by are now absent. Instead, he drifts. He sinks slowly down toward the bottom. And he does not move.

It watches on, curious and concerned. It follows the child all the way to the stony floor, where sand and plantlife live between the rent cracks. But the boy does not live. No, he settles on the mossy floor, back lightly bumping against it, body rocking gently in the water. Bubbles escape out through his nose, moving through the other on their way to the surface.

It doesn't want to believe this. The boy is gone. He's dead. Dead things, that were once alive. He was alive, in the cell. He was alright and then those men came and...

Templars. That's what the boy had called them, in his head. It had sat and watched the images and emotions play through the child's head, fascinated and moved. He had wanted to help, to offer comfort. But why had he grown so attached? It had never sought out a living creature before, and so was entirely unprepared. It did not expect this. It did not want this. It wanted the boy. It wanted him back alive.

All was sad now, despair flowed freely through its being. All was lost now. The boy was lost. If only he wasn't so helpless. Why didn't he attempt to stop the men from encroaching on their happy memories. Why did he hide away, useless, while they took the boy and didn't give him back. He had just wanted to help. He only wanted to help.

And now he wanted to the boy. The child who floated mere inches away, unreachable now. Beyond his grasp. Maybe he could still return him, carry him back to the little cell, shut the door and let the boy sleep. He really needed sleep, it could still feel the tendrils of exhaustion falling away from the child even now.

So tired, so sleepy. He'd only wanted to pull the blankets back up, and get back to sleep. He'd wanted....he wanted...he wanted to get out. He had to get out. Templars, please, someone let him out! The cupboard was so small and cramped. She couldn't breathe. Where is his sister? He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe!

Water filled his lungs, and Cole flailed his limbs wildly, scratching at the water in his haste for the surface. When he finally broke it, he inhaled a long, raw breath, lungs expanding for the first time. A pale hand slapped against the stone edge, and Cole slowly pulled himself out and into the dusty air. He coughed and sputtered, greenish water spewing out his mouth, leaving his throat burning.

Once he caught his breath, Cole looked around, confused at his surroundings. Hadn't he been in a cell? Had the Templars finally come for him? Where were they?

Cole stood on shaky legs, arms wrapping around his middle to fend off the chill. He was so tired, he really needed to sleep. That was what he had just been thinking about, right? Sleep, he needed to rest.

Cole gave one last look back toward the dark pool, water settling at the surface, and then began walking down one of the many tunnels, eyes adjusting quickly to the darkness. He'd find a nice dry spot to sleep, just for a little while. And then he'd figure out just where he's managed to escape to. For that surely must be what he'd done. He'd escaped the Templars, just as he'd escaped his father. And they would never find him again.

 

  _“There’s a pool in one of the lower halls. I go there sometimes…Sometimes I feel like I’m underwater, and I won’t ever get out again. I just keep sinking and sinking, and there’s no bottom. The darkness is going to swallow me up.”_  
                                                  - Cole, Dragon Age: Asunder


End file.
